Odium
by Smellyfishh
Summary: Mr. House didn't often miss the mortality of his human body but sometimes, to his dismay, the courier makes him regret the loss of it. Onesided House/f!courier. Oneshot.


_**A/N:**__ I debated for a long time whether or not to post this because I tend to get strange ideas at ungodly hours of the night but I saw the lack of House fics and was disappointed, so I caved. Rated T for some bordering graphic descriptions of sorta intimacy. I'm still working on my other fallout story please do not be upset with me._

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><p>Mr. House found the courier of his employ, to put it frankly, disgusting.<p>

It was _everything_ about her from her lack of cleanliness, to the poor company she kept, to her vulgar use of language, to the way she failed to take care of her equipment, to her gross scavenging hobby and her inability to understand simple concepts.

Her hygiene habits were especially atrocious; he adds a second time soulfully.

A mess of bloodied matted hair, streaks, thick layers of mud caked her cowboy boots, sand filled her traveling pack and she always managed to track dirt into his suite despite her attempts to wipe her feet on the Lucky 38 welcome mat.

Didn't she at least have some kind of minute inkling of a desire to look presentable for him? He fondly remembers a time of the past when a woman he was courting at the time refused to let him see her without makeup. Six lacked the sufficient feminine qualities of his past female employees but she certainly had the assets of one. He pushes the dangerous thought aside, hoping to drown it.

_Doesn't she have any sort of dignity to uphold? _He would think when she casually sauntered into the strip, eventually making her way to the Lucky 38. _Very, very eventually._ He added bitterly.

The thought that she didn't see him as a man at first made him feel powerful, near godlike even, but now it only succeeded in bothering him.

Why he desired otherwise he didn't know, at least, he wasn't willing to admit it, especially to himself.

At first the feelings started off fleeting, only lingering shortly after Six left for the Penthouse elevator. Then the loneliness would set in, weigh on his chest. The pestering feelings grew at an alarming rate, slowly creeping into his absent thoughts when she had departed to complete some errand he had sent her to fulfill.

If he had it his way all the time, she'd remain under the Lucky 38's roof where he had easy access to surveillance but alas, he had no claim on her. It's a ridiculous thought that passes his mind, pathetic even. He decided to live an incredibly long life of reclusion as overseer of the strip. He enjoyed life like this. He has lived a successful, interesting and magnificent life 3 times over and yet this still pained him. His lack of resolution made him hate. This new found, fickle, fleeting emotion he was processing was most unwelcome.

Most times near the beginning, he'd give her privacy while occupying the presidential suite. He had no reason to suspect disloyalty but lately, he found himself crafting excuses to spy. After the first time he watched her bathe, he felt disgusted. He told himself he was above such temptations of the flesh, especially now since he was so much more reliant on computer terminals and silicon. It didn't matter how much he lied, it was in insurmountable task to separate the humanity from the human. He thought this was a good thing a long time ago but now more than anything he wished to squash it.

Even more frightening were the fleeting situational fantasies that involuntarily sped through his head during idle moments. It had been so long since he had desired a woman, a real woman. Artificial intelligence could only satisfy his unwelcomed primitive urges of primal sexual conquest. He wanted companionship. Someone to challenge him occasionally, get angry and be expressive. With all the money he possessed, these things he lacked. Inauspicious that it happened to be the things he wanted the most.

To be young again sounded like a blessing in that moment.

He wanted to hold her against his chest, place a hand on her scared cheek, kiss her mouth savoring the moment.

When she argued with him he wanted to brace her over his knee and make her understand her place, spank her until her bottom was red, satisfyingly ample and nearly swollen. He'd toss her into bed then, restraining her hands above her head to remind her of his position as her employer. He'd knot a firm grasp in her hair before passionately kissing her, daring her to disobey. Being modest as she was, he knew she'd protest but he'd show her it'd be foolish to reject his advances. Words of warning would ghost over her cheek before he took her on top of expensive prewar sheets.

He never regretted the loss of his body more than he ever had in that moment. And he felt absolutely grotesque at the nauseating fantasies dancing through his mind's eye. It was wrong, he knew it all too well, but was unable to stop himself from indulging the more frequently they happened.

Mr. House hadn't desired to occupy human flesh in a long time and one simple girl was enough to re-inspire those forgotten desires.

There were simply experiences that no longer held the same charm that they had in the pre-war days. Certain things lost their magic once he lost his bodily autonomy.

Mr. House would reminisce occasionally. He missed it sometimes, the gentle caress of a woman's touch on his forearm as he plays the role of gentlemanly escort out in public. He would never again feel lipstick smeared on his cheek as he garnered affection from generous flirty women or smell their perfume on his tie after retiring from a long day's work. He could no longer attend gloriously frivolous parties, trying to impress unpopular actresses by satisfying their hunger for wealth and fame that he could easily provide.

He wanted to dance again, as silly as it sounded in his own head. There was just something magical about waltzing with a lovely woman in a dim lit ballroom to the rhythm of classic jazz.

He never thought he's miss something as obnoxious as hygiene but there was a certain ritual to combing his hair every morning or dabbing gel on his thick eyebrows, keeping his full mustache tidy.

There was something satisfying, even liberating, about strolling through the empty halls of his domain that wasn't the same experience only viewed from behind a computer screen.

He'd never admit these things of course, just like he's never admit the revolting parasitic feelings the courier had unwittingly sewn into him.

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><p>Their conversations and exchanges were awkward to say the least. Six wasn't dim, just a little slow when it came to Mr. House's outdated vocabulary. Granted half the time it was difficult to pay attention to the man because he liked to embellish every idea, ramble on in a diplomatic way that made her fight sleep. She had trained herself to get it when she could and the cushy confines of The Lucky 38 made her very weary.<p>

She only smiles politely, nodding her head at appropriate moments in Mr. House's cleverly disguised umpteenth lecture about his greatness. The man never ceased to seize an opportunity to express how intelligent, powerful and wealthy he was. She supposed his obnoxious arrogance and ever-bountiful confidence was a part of the intimidation. Without the sturdy guard of his Securitrons he'd be only a feeble, decrepit old man.

"Got it." She attempts to cut this lecture short in a mildly rude manner.

"One more thing before you depart, courier."

"What is it?" She hid a look of irritation well.

Mr. House isn't sure what comes over him but the thought leaves him before he could consider how foolish and out of place it sounded.

"Although I know it's not your_ style_ so to speak," he speaks regretfully, the modern colloquialism would have tasted funny on his tongue if his body could still react to stimuli, feel.

"Please do _try_ and take caution? You're much more invaluable than you realize."

Another awkward silence passes through them both, painfully uncomfortable. For a moment, House wonders if she sensed the fondness behind his charade of an apathetic voice.

"Oh, uh, thanks." She mumbles shyly, looking down at her feet.

"I'm going to go now."

"Don't let me keep you."

By the time she makes it outside, her companion has grown salty.

"What took you so long?" Arcade's tone is irritated.

"He doesn't ever stop _talking_." Six blatantly complains, throwing her arms up in the air.

Arcade only narrows his already squinting eyes, hand placed above his brow in attempts to shield them from the brilliant sun.

"You know how old people never shut up? Well it's worse because Mr. House is like 3 times the old." She exasperates somewhat jokingly but only at his expense.

"I thought you said he kept you in the dark about his plans."

"He _does_, it's everything else under the frickin' sun that he keeps me there with." She sighs dramatically before stomping off.

"Alright, now where to?" Arcade asks, absently inspecting his mild sunburn.

Mr. House observes them via securitron walking through the gate to the strip, intently, patiently.

The dull ache of loneliness set in slowly, the Lucky 38 empty once again...

He thought of the courier of his employ and he was disgusted.

Utterly disgusted, he realizes after a time.

Completely disgusted with _himself_.


End file.
